


Embers Just Waiting for Breath

by Measured_Words



Category: Fire in the Head - Sharon Knight (Song)
Genre: Bards, Bechdel Test Pass, Fae & Fairies, Faustian Bargain, Fire, Folklore, Gen, Madness, Megaliths, Ordeals, Pilgrimage, Rituals, Songs, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Efa goes to the Giant's Chair<br/>To make a Feyre pact...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embers Just Waiting for Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> Thank you to my outstanding betas N and K for helping me fix up a few inconsistencies! Any remaining errors are entirely my own, but I'll still blame the Fey.

Efa came to town unaccompanied, and this gained her some stares. Once the gawkers determined that she was another hopeful, seeking inspiration from the Court, they settled into another kind of polite wariness. They'd seen this tale played out so many times, and so rarely with any kind of happy ending. She was directed to the public house where she could take space in the common room for a handful of copper coins or a few songs. She might have taken a private room, but she wasn't who she was because she relished privacy. Efa wanted to be known: to be seen and remarked on; remembered and honoured. That was why she'd come.

The woman who ran the place looked her up and down as she poured her a tumbler of beer from a ceramic jug, and sent the young boy with her to fetch some stew from the communal pot. It came served in its own bowl of bread. "Are you passing through?"

Efa searched the question for a loaded meaning, but what she found wasn't what she was looking for. This woman hoped she would just pass through. "No," she answered, resisting the urge to be defiant, to declare her grand intent to a room that was mostly empty, save of people who'd likely heard it all before. Now it was best to be understated. Once she returned, successful – then she could crow, and no one would roll their eyes at her words. They'd be rapt, enchanted. No one would ignore her or dismiss her ever again. "Do you get many bards out here who just pass through?"

"Few enough who intend it. Some of them come to their senses." She raised her eyebrows, watching her hands as she wiped some condensation off the outside of her jug before stoppering it. "I suppose you'd call it losing their nerve."

"If they weren't ready – if they weren't sure – then maybe it was coming to their senses." Perhaps a little defiance was justified.

"Be as it may, most who go up to the mountain don't come back." She paused for a moment. "I do try to remember their names. It's a poem of my own, I suppose. Would you like to hear it?"

Efa hesitated. What use to her was a litany of failure? But a small voice at the back of her head whispered that they must have been as brave and sure as she was. And if her louder thoughts told her they could not have been as good as her, did they not deserve some recognition? Maybe she could use them too – talk up their efforts to showcase her own success. Maybe, though the guilty twinge that accompanied that thought deserved more consideration first. "What's your name?" she countered instead.

"Most people call me Widow Siân."

This time Efa did hear the loaded meaning, the untold story, and she nodded slowly. "Well then – let's hear your poem."

  


* * *

  
She'd come to town early, and the public house was quiet. Siân's litany had given her something to think about – the woman had remembered more than just the names of those who'd come before to be tested. She'd said that she didn't even know of all of them, as they didn't all come through town and didn't all stay with her. There could have been more, over the years. She had stories from a few years where there had been more than one stranger drift into town, intending to prove themselves to the Court – they'd all turned messy, and awful. Siân didn't have a high opinion of the Court itself, though she managed to convey this indirectly.

Efa wasn't deterred, but she did want to clear her head, and to learn more about this little place that thrived so close to the Giant's Chair – the great hill that served as a gateway between the worlds where the boldest and the best came to prove themselves, and to have their mortal gifts enhanced. The proximity generated little respect for the Fey. The best she could say was that people here were not dismissive. They knew the Court held real power, but if Siân was right, it had been a very long time since anyone local had sought to meddle with it.

She'd hoped to find some other influence – exotic shops, perhaps, selling Feyre trinkets, or travellers come from even further afield than herself, but it could have been almost any small town that she'd seen along the way here, and she couldn't decide if it was fitting or disappointing or both. Trailing through the narrow streets, peering in the shops and immersing herself in its quintessential quaintness, it took her a while to realize that she was being followed. The man looked like a beggar – she thought she'd seen him before, on her way to the pub. Had he been waiting for her? Was he a thief? A madman?

Efa turned, once she'd assured herself it was more than imagination, and faced him. He continued to approach, though more nervously, and he wouldn't meet her gaze. Her first assessment had been correct – he was clearly a beggar. His clothes were a mishmash of rags, and his shoes, such as they were, were tied to his feet with cords. Rather than walking, he shuffled his way along, muttering to himself. He was dirty, and he smelled like urine and old trash.

"Who are you?" She demanded, when he got close enough that she feared being overwhelmed by his stench if he came any closer. "What do you want?"

"There's a cord," he muttered – or maybe he'd meant 'chord'. His fingers twitched erratically, and he still didn't look at her. "Winding, binding, cord!" Suddenly he jerked his head up, and she could see his eyes. It was like he was trying to focus, but he was seeing past or through her. "Winding. Winding!"

"I'm sorry." Her heart was pounding – this was not the kind of attention she sought or desired. "You need to stop following me, and go somewhere else. Do you understand?"

"Sometimes, it sits under your skin. You feel it, so tight...." He glanced her way again, though still not directly at her, shrinking even further in on himself, and shuffling backwards without turning. When he reached the nearest alleyway, he bolted quickly down it, still mumbling nonsense to himself.

There were a few other people in the streets, but they were trying very hard to mind their own business.

  


* * *

  
"That's Mad Nik," Siân said, pouring Efa another beer. "I don't think anyone really knows his story. He just showed up one day."

"He's a beggar?"

"Of sorts. Too crazy to actually ask for anything. Sometimes he'll follow someone around, and they'll give him some scraps or rags. Doesn’t seem to know what to do with coin."

"Harmless then?" It had been unsettling, but maybe he'd just been hoping she would feed him.

"Well, he's mad. He's never hurt anyone that I know." Siân shrugged. "Won't set foot on the church grounds though."

Efa hesitated. "There were no Niks on your list."

"I'd never seen him before he came to town, and he was mad then."

She had other questions – if he was as mad as all that, how did they even know his name? He hadn't seen coherent enough to have given one, but it wasn't a local name. Siân didn't have many answers, just advice not to worry about it too much.

Efa had more pressing concerns. She wanted more than just Siân to know her name before she went to her trial. She'd played in all the towns on the way, gathering and impressing audiences. Efa had learned that this was best done by understanding her audience – they were hill people, and the sea songs wouldn't serve. Love was always popular, but it was too late in the year for songs of spring. It was the time for the harvest, of fall, with the promise of winter lurking in the cooling air. There were songs for this, and she played them to a warm reception. There were also the Feyre songs, but she stuck to the better known ones for now. Between these she worked in some of her more popular original tunes. 

It all seemed to go over well – people brought her drinks, and they stuck around long into the evening. Between sets, they came to talk to her, and she managed to draw out more stories from the locals about the names that Siân had given her. Some had strong opinions on their relative merits, but when she made herself listen – really listen, with her tale-teller's ears – what she learned was somewhat sobering. The locals were honest. Some of those who'd come before had been good – very good. Given the way they were remembered, maybe even better than her. It didn't seem to have mattered.

There were only a few who had any stories about what happened to the hopefuls afterwards, and they weren't keen to repeat them. They'd just shake their heads, say it was a shame and a waste.

Efa tried a different tactic.

"What about Mad Nik?" she asked one man, an old shepherd named Mathias. "Is he Fey-touched? I hear he won't enter the churchyard."

"That could be." Mathias sucked on his pipe. "Could be he made it down. They say the attempt can kill a man – or a woman. But it’s the mountain. If you haven't your wits, it'll claim you as fast as the Court. Faster even, in the dark."

She hadn't considered that, but it did help explain why this corner of the world wasn't plagued by half-witted failed bards. You heard whispers of them on the wind here and there, and she knew they were real, but the stories were all she had unless she was right about Nik. "I see," she said, "thank you."

"Don't thank me, girl. Take care. You don't have to be Fey-addled for that place to be dangerous. Did our hostess tell you what happened to her man, Cai? The mountain got him - her boy was just a bairn then."

Efa shook her head. Siân had warned her about the Fey, though, and that was interesting.

Mathias frowned. "You just take care," he repeated.

  


* * *

  
Nik had been hanging around the edges of her performance, but the rest of the audience had encouraged him to keep his distance. Now that Efa wanted to speak to him, he was harder to pin down. She didn't regret her earlier firmness, but it was aggravating nonetheless to know that her current difficulty was self-generated. He'd run away again when she approached the first time, and even now that she'd brought a loaf of bread and some beer, he was staying back.

"I'm going to put them here," she said, using the same calm authority she'd invoked before. There was a bench outside the hall where she'd been playing, and the rest of her audience had mostly drifted off. The food was part of the gifts she'd been given as payment for her music. "You can come and have them, but I want to talk to you." 

Efa stepped away, and waited. After a few false starts, Nik approached and snatched them up. He tore into the bread, holding it close, barely chewing before swallowing the first bites. She worried he might choke, but he slowed down after no one appeared to snatch it away from him. The beer he drank more carefully, as though he wasn't quite sure of it. What kind of charity did he receive here, she wondered? Enough to keep him alive, at least. People seemed to tolerate him even if they weren't overly generous.

"Is your name Nik?"

He looked up from his food. Having eaten his fill for now – not very much, she noticed – he was wrapping up the rest of the loaf in a dirty cloth he'd pulled out of his sleeve. He didn't answer, and shrank back a little when she took a step towards the bench.

"I just want to talk to you. That's what they call you – Nik. Do you know why?"

He shook his head.

"Do you know where you came from?" She kept back from the bench, worried that he'd spook again. 

"It's all tied up." He frowned very intently as he answered, staring past her the same way he had earlier. If she looked past the grime and the lack of grooming, she could see that he was quite a bit younger than she'd first thought.

"Did you go up to petition the Court?"

"Embers just waiting for breath." It was like he was trying to look at her but kept missing somehow, as if she wasn't quite real to him. Efa wondered what he saw – or maybe he was blind as well? "Just waiting."

"Does that mean yes?" There was almost no point. Even if she was right, nothing he said made any sense. If he'd gone to gamble, he'd lost his mind.

"Nothing is what you think it is. It never was. Just words, wound up words, tied up words. Just words. Binding words."

Was it all nonsense? She was surer than ever that he'd done what she'd planned – that he'd gone up to the Giant's Chair, that he'd passed between the worlds on the long night when the spaces between the world had blurred. The Fey were terrible, awesome creatures. They loved poets and artists, but they were fickle and capricious. Dangerous.

"Thank you," she told him, and left him the jug of beer as well. Maybe there was nothing to be had here but a warning.

  


* * *

  
Siân's house was busy when she returned – people had learned she was staying there, and had come to ply her with more drink and pry more songs and stories from her. She might have preferred some time alone with her thoughts, but she would have plenty of that the next night, waiting for the door to open. Instead, she played and sang and caroused until people dispersed or passed out. Siân seemed grateful for the business, though she looked tired by the end of it.

"Here," she said as she wiped her hands on her apron, and nodded that Efa should stay seated. She put up the last of the clean tankards, then produced a key to one of the private rooms. "Take it – it’s a gift. You'll need what rest you can get, and there'll be little to be had in the common room." The room smelled of unwashed bodies and spilled beer, and Efa wasn't sure she wanted to think too hard about what else might be on the floor. Some of the drunks who'd passed out earlier were snoring loudly – there was nothing to be gained at this point by trying to bed down here. Efa took the key.

"Thank you."

"Have you really thought this through?"

"I have." Efa considered. Siân still looked concerned, or uncertain. It took a little restraint not to be glib, but there wasn't much to be gained by it. It seemed a better time for honesty. "I have more to do, and I thank you for the chance to do it in peace. But part of me feels like it's too late to turn back. I could lose my life or my mind – if I turn back, all will know I lost my nerve, and I'll lose the life I have now and my wits won't be far behind. There's something in me that needs this. I can't settle down. I tried it, and it doesn't suit."

"Wanderlust is what my father called it. You'll grow out of it."

"I've heard that before, but it hasn't proved true yet. I don't know that it ever will. This life makes me happy."

Siân nodded, no happier, but more resigned. "Well then. The most I can do is remember your name, but I will."

"Do you always do this – try to talk people out of going up the hill?"

"I usually give it a shot. Not all who pass through are so personable though. All bards are good at telling stories, but they're not always so keen on hearing them. You have that knack, I think, to see the shape of what's set before you." She raised her eyebrows, leaning on the table. "No more likely to listen though."

"I am listening. But this is the shape I see, the shape I want, however the tale ends. I can't let it be less."

"Then go and get some rest. I've got to check on my boy"

She had been listening, and besides her own tale, she could see more of the shape of what Siân wasn't telling her – what she wasn't warning her about. But tomorrow would be a long day, and her advice was still sound; Efa took the key and headed to the room.

  


* * *

  
Efa rested in the morning, glad for the privacy of the room after all. She hadn’t actually slept much – her mind was racing with possibilities. She couldn’t let herself have room for doubts, but she allowed herself to consider and accept the potential for failure. When she emerged around noon, Siân had prepared a meal and packed up some food for her to take. The public house was full of people who had come to gawk, to see her off, to share one last song. She did her best to give them what they wanted, as they seemed willing enough to give her the interest and good wishes she craved in return.

She left them wanting more; it was a good feeling, a good send-off. The trip up the mountain was something she would have to do alone, as was the night spent. There had been no other hopefuls come through town, and she didn’t expect to find anyone else once she got to the Giant’s Chair. Her impression from Siân was that it wasn’t an annual occurrence anyway. You needed to have drive and ambition and talent, and you needed to know where to go and to be able to travel. While all bards ranged, even some very good ones stuck much closer to their homes. It might have been nice to have some idea of what to expect, but there was a reason that this particular pilgrimage was about a power rooted in myths and stories. Everyone had heard of a success, could give names and songs and stories. But it was always a certainty born of time and distance and story: someone from away, or in my mother’s time, everyone knows how they made their name. The surest sign that there was more to it than imagination was Siân’s list. If success was a myth, the cost of failure seemed real enough.

It wasn’t an easy climb. The winds on the mountain were cold. Loose rocks threatened to send her stumbling. The path was not well marked, though her destination was unmistakable, the bare granite jutting out from the hillside, slabs stacked by nature or Feyre magic into a rough, angled bench: the Giant’s Chair, the doorway to Feyre. She could see what the local men like Mathias had meant – it was treacherous in the afternoon sunshine and with a fairly clear, if tired, head. In the dim dawn light, the sun barely stretching its rays around the peaks, and your wits scrambled by Feyre magic, it would be easy to misstep. Efa cast her gaze to the bottom of one of the ravines very briefly, trying not to dwell on what might be lying at the base of the dark crevices.

The late afternoon was pressing into early evening when she arrived at the chair, and the whole night stretched ahead of her. The wind was worse the higher she went, and it was colder than she'd expected – the kind of chill that cut right to the bone. But fire was important, she knew, and once she'd reached her goal it was easy to see where others who had come before had built theirs in the shelter of the stones. Up close, they were much more worn than she'd guessed, almost polished. They were also warm to the touch, defiant of the elements. Human hands over the centuries might have accounted for some of their smoothness if it didn't extend much higher than even a very tall man could reach. Her heart beat faster as she stood, her own hand on the polished stone, as she imagined what was to come.

The spot where Efa cleared grass from burnt earth could not have been made by another hopeful. It wasn't overgrown enough to have sat for a year or more, and it made her consider other uses the stones must have. This place had its own power and, besides, poets weren't the only ones who had business with the Court. All the stories – of people stolen away, of bargains made, of other kinds of petitions – spoke to the stretch of their power. Some were just invented tales, of course, but not all. She fanned the embers she'd carried up with her, feeding them twigs and branches she'd collected, carefully, on her trip. There wasn't much to burn this high up, and she wondered if she should go now, while there was still light, to make sure she had a ready supply of wood. The only trees she'd seen had been a few rowans.

She didn't need to venture far: on the far side of the largest stone she found a small woodpile with enough, if she was frugal, to last her through the night if necessary. More interesting was what lay beside it: a small jug, wound round with a strip of rowan tied with rough red wool thread. She picked it up cautiously, realizing that it was full, and that it was the same jug she'd left with Mad Nik the night before. Was it meant for her? 

The contents had no noticeable smell, which was slightly reassuring. It was also colourless, and when she dipped her the tip of finger in it, it was cold, and it seemed most likely that it was just water. She hesitated before tasting it, but in the end she let her curiosity win out – this was meant to be an adventure and a trial and a risk. It was slightly salty, and it called to mind a song – one of her own, the tune reworked from something older and the story of it born from scraps of older tales.

_The ocean that my true love plowed_  
_It was no mortal sea_  
_It was a shining gem that spans_  
_The lost lands of Feyre_  
_The waves are formed of babies' breaths_  
_Their whimpers and their squalls_  
_The water is of salty tears_  
_That pool in widows' halls_

A jug of tears was certain worthy of a song, if that's what it was. It could just be salt water, though that seemed like its own kind of waste. This place wasn't so far from the sea, but it was still far enough. It was a mystery then, but she set aside its contemplation in favour of building her fire, and let her mind turn to other matters.

  


* * *

  
Night fell quickly, and the wind rose with the moon. Efa wondered if perhaps it was what had worn the stones of the Giant's Chair so smooth. There must have been a crack somewhere above her shelter or in the hills nearby, or something logical to explain the shrieking sound. There was no escape from it; it made it hard to think, let alone keep her fire burning. Efa wanted to scream right back at it, but that didn't seem fitting to her errand. She sang instead.

The wind tore the music from her. No matter how loud she sang, Efa couldn't hear her own voice, though she could feel its resonance. She sang for the wind and the stones, for the Court if they were listening; she sang for herself. She started with the oldest songs she knew, the ones whose words no longer had the same shapes and sounds as the ones people spoke now, that had been passed down and down and down through the ages. She sang the Feyre songs she knew, and songs by Fey-touched bards, songs she'd learned in her travels, and songs she'd written herself. She knew hundreds, and she poured them out on the mountain, fed them to the hungry wind. It was exhilarating even without the sense of expectation.

Efa sang until her throat was dry and her fire burned low. She felt giddy, her head spinning. In the moment when she paused to wet her throat, the jug she'd found waiting by the woodpile was a curious temptation. She picked it up, but something about the feel of the wood under her fingers was sobering, and she set it aside again, drinking instead the beer that Siân had packed.

_Bring me a drink, I am weary_  
_I have travelled far_  
_Over green hills, grey mountains_  
_I have travelled far_  
_So far away, so very long ago_  
_My journey is not ended_  
_Though I am weary, and I have travelled far_

The words were unfamiliar, but the tune that came with them was just a new variation on an old song. She must have heard it before somewhere, but she couldn't place it. Her impromptu performance must have stirred up her memory – it had just popped into her mind.  
Hunkered down in her shelter, Efa could almost even hear her own voice through the wind, and she wondered if moving back under the stones might further improve the acoustics. She lit a brand from her fire. With one hand cupping the flame to protect it from the wind and the other trailing along the side of the stone, she moved further beneath the stones. She should have run into the woodpile fairly quickly, but she didn't see it. Perhaps she'd missed it in the dark, but the stone felt rougher under her touch as well, and went on farther than she'd recalled. Her excitement was palpable – nervous energy made her muscles tense and heart beat faster, and she could feel a tingling that spread up from her core through her nerves. Without lifting her hand from the crumbling stone, Efa closed her eyes. She stepped forward.

It had been dark and cold, but there was light now behind her eyes, and heat from more than just the firebrand she carried. There was a pressure on her mind, and a foreign energy engulfed her. This was it: this was Feyre. She'd made it this far, and glory lay before her. There was music here, and other art. She could feel it, calling to her bones, resonating with the gifts she already possessed. It was dangerous, she knew by instinct – it was hungry, and the resonance threatened to consume more than her talents if she gave into it. She held on to herself, for now, and opened her eyes.

Everyone knew what Feyre was like – Lords and Ladies in their castles, grand and majestic, overlooking a wild and beautiful demesne. Efa's mind provided her images for something it could not quite grasp: a sense of stillness and quiet power became a seated man of stone, enormous, towering over the glittering hall, staring straight ahead. Around him gathered crowds of whispering courtiers dressed in silks and velvet, draped in jewels and furs, mouths hidden behind their flowing sleeves. Efa could feel their hunger pulling at the music, at her. She waited silently, though she wasn't quite certain for what – there were no stories to tell her how this scene should play out. She knew her role, but had no direction save instinct.

The crowd parted. A woman, taller and more regal than the rest, her shimmering skin so pale it was almost translucent, made her way to the foot of the throne where the giant sat in stony silence. She filled Efa's mind so completely that she almost couldn't understand anything else, but there was more, and the quiet voice at the back of her thoughts challenged her to stretch her mind, to take in all she could: there was someone with her. It was a man, and he was so much _less_ than everything around him that she almost missed that he was also much more real. The woman – the Queen – led him by a red cord that looped around his throat. Meeting his eyes made Efa feel much more grounded – solid like she had when she'd grasped the rowan-bound jug. He did nothing except watch her in return. When the Queen spoke, she nearly forgot him again.

Like everything else about her, the Queen's words only turned from intent to substance in Efa's head, and she could feel the transformation quivering in her jaw.

"You have come before the Court to seek Our favour. We know you, Efa of the shore, of the waters, of the rivers and coasts. You have come to Our hills, and we taste your music. Give Us your Gift, Efa the Bard, and we will give you Our songs."

Binding words. Efa listened, but she kept her eyes on the man – she knew him, and his words came back to her now. Tied up words, wound up words. His neck tied with a red cord. She didn't know what was happening, but she knew whatever she said next would have real power.

"I have my own songs, your majesty. I can sing them for you – I can give you a song."

"We could drink the music from your bones, bard. We do not need your songs, nor the singing of them."

What gift did they want? Her talent? If she gave it to them, or to her, what use would their favour be? Was that how others had gone mad – poured full of Feyre glamour, and with nothing left to channel it? It was easy also to imagine how they wound up dead. And what of Nik? He'd come here and left some part of himself behind…

"You have another's Gift," she said finally.

"It's Ours. He gave it to Us."

The Fey were greedy and Their greed was hunger, like the music or the realm that called to her, trying to settle into her skin. If he was truly Theirs, he would have been consumed. Instead, he was tied to the Queen in some way, bound to Her, and She had sent his mortal self wandering the world, incomplete. The Queen wasn't about to tell her what had happened, though – Efa would have to work that out some other way. She looked at Nik and he met her gaze, his look intense. He raised a hand to his neck, plucking at the red thread, but said nothing. Had she stolen his voice? Or maybe his words? What did a bard have to offer the Queen of Feyre, if She didn’t want their songs? What else had Nik said – a winding cord. Or a winding chord?

“He bound it to You.”

“Will you bind yourself, Efa of the coasts?”

This was what They wanted: a voice at their service and a contract to keep their own hungers in check. They couldn’t restrain themselves, but they could obey their own injunctions. How exactly they would use this gift was unclear. Nik’s ramblings hadn’t given her any insight on that matter. Still, she could already feel the power pushing at her, enflaming her mind, sinking into her skin as she accepted it. She knew the standard terms: a year and a day, however long that might mean on the other side of the stone. Her mind shaped the geas, her mouth spoke it into being: Feyre power given shape and substance through her own gift of words, of music, of creation.

_Bound one year in service to the Feyre Court_  
_Came proud Efa_  
_When long shadows lay on the land_  
_And her days grew short_  
_Then ceded storied Efa_  
_Her year and day in service to the Feyre Court_

Efa knew why they needed her, but she would not come yet. She would have her own life first, and her own glory. Nik nodded, pulling his hand away from the cord at his throat even as the Queen smiled and stepped back. The rest of the Court fell back with her until they flanked the stone giant. Efa had thought him a statue but, with a slowness that suited his size, he opened his mouth. Sound came, and light, enveloping her, resonating inside her. The music, the chord, wound itself inside her, settling under her skin, waiting for her call. She could feel the alien realm around her, could grasp it and – if she so chose – could speak it into being. At her back, she could feel her own world, the threads of Feyre magic woven through it, could hear the shape of songs and stories waiting to be given life through her art. She could feel where they crossed, and the shape of stories left unfinished and unspoken, and she knew that she stood a place where the worlds thinned, that she could reach into both. She did, taking hold of the jug, the widow's tears, knowing her words would make them real.

"Majesty, Queen of the Wild Places, Beguiler of the Lost, in Your hunger, You have usurped another's claim, stolen away a lover, a husband, and made him Yours. You have taken love and given loss. I return it to you now, for a token. Give me the ring of Cai, taken to serve Your pleasures these five years, and I give to You the tears of Siân who mourns him."

The Feyre world flared, burning more brightly, pressing in around her – she could feel the Queen's anger. For a moment her mind could not hold the scene and the giant, the courtiers, were washed out by blinding light. Efa gripped the bottle tightly, the bound rowan pressing into her hand. She overturned it, keeping her half of the bargain spoken, quenching the heat of the fire. When she opened her eyes again she could see the gathered Court – in one hand the Queen held the cord that bound Nik, and above it hovered a globe of clear swirling water. She held the other hand open, and in it rested a worn gold band.

"As you have spoken, Efa of the water. When your time in the mortal realm grows short, I will come for you, and take you into service. I will remember."

Efa took the ring. Behind her, the first rays of dawn were spilling across the landscape, and the worlds turned further apart. She stepped backwards into her own place, in the shadow of the Giant's Chair. The screaming of the wind had hushed. Her brand lay discarded in the ground, but its embers still glowed and the gold ring was strangely hot in her hand.

  


* * *

  
The trip down the mountain was difficult. Not only because the terrain was treacherous, but because Efa was having to learn to see the world through new eyes. Stories and songs were everywhere, threads begging to be pulled together, and if she wasn't careful she would trip over them. She had to keep reminding herself that the world itself hadn't changed, that this was the same path she'd stumbled along the day before, that below her were the same fields, the same village, the same people. She didn't worry now about impressing them, as she could see exactly how to draw them in. In each thread, she could feel the Feyre music, and she knew her songs would wind it more thoroughly up into the world. Formal service and all its mysteries would come later, but her pact would further their power long before.

People stared when she reached the village. At first she wondered if there was anything noticeably different, but she realized that their astonishment was mostly to see her alive, and to all appearances sane. She wasn’t babbling or drooling on herself, at least. She hummed as she went, spinning the story into music. Some of the villagers waved at her, and she waved back, but didn't stop to chat with them until she'd reached the public house.

It was late morning, and the place was empty save Siân, who was sweeping away the traces of the previous evening's revelry. Her eyes widened when Efa pulled open the door, the breeze swirling around her skirts. She nearly dropped her broom.

"You’re back – are you alright?"

"I am changed, and I will pay for my bargain, but for now I have what I wanted."

"You've been gone a day. Did you know that? I waited for you to return yesterday, and then I tried to hope you had simply left us behind."

Efa nodded slowly at that, unsurprised. "Time flows differently in Feyre."

"Well." Siân had set aside her broom, and now she moved to pour them each a drink. "What would I know about that."

Efa had known there was a story before – she'd heard it hidden in their conversations, in how Siân had never spoken of her husband, in the list of names of the lost, in her determination to keep Efa from her task. Now she could see the hidden bitterness as well, and nodded as she lowered herself onto one of the benches.

"I have something for you." The ring was heavy in her hand, and Efa set it on the table. Siân sat before she picked it up, looking stunned.

"They said it was the mountain." Her voice trembled, her eyes ran with tears. "But I knew... I knew...."

Efa nodded, and gave her Cai's song.

_I sat beneath the Rowan tree_  
_And love, my love, was in my heart_  
_On the mountainside where poets dream_  
_No thought that we should ever part_

_Away, away, I'm gone away_  
_I'm gone away forever_  
_'Til silver stars do call you home_  
_Then we shall be together_

_The Feyre Queen appeared to me_  
_She called my name, she took my hand_  
_She beguiled my heart and memory_  
_She stole me to the Feyre land_

_Away, away, I'm gone away_  
_I'm gone away forever_  
_'Til silver stars do call you home_  
_Then we shall be together_

_I'm gone, but love, I know your pain_  
_I drown in every tear you spill_  
_Though home I'll never see again_  
_My love, you're first in my heart still_

By the end of the song, Siân was in tears, and Efa left her with the ring and the empty jug to mourn her stolen husband. She had other tales to tend to.

Nik was waiting for her outside. As with everything else, Efa saw him differently now. She could perceive the red cord that tangled him, that bound his words and split him. The same resonance that fueled her sang in him as well, and she knew that when his service was through he would come back to himself, whole. More, she knew how to listen now, to find the meaning in his words – he was not so mad as that, she knew. He'd been the one to see Siân's story. He'd brought her the jug, wherever it had come from.

"We're leaving now," she told him. "I'm going to clean you up, and take care of you. And when my time comes, you can do the same for me, alright?"

"It's all echoes, in the end," he muttered. Nik still couldn't look at her – if anything, he avoided it all the harder – but he still followed her all the same.

  


* * *

  
_Epilogue_

Meic was baking bread trenchers, just like his grandmother had shown him. He'd used them to serve the stew that was bubbling away in the big cauldron over the fire in the main room, but it was cold and quiet outside and he wasn't expecting much business. He liked running the public better than he'd liked chasing after sheep on the hills, and he made enough to keep his wife happy and his children fed. The rest of the town had been happy when he'd taken over from Siân after she'd had that bad fall, as the place was a good gathering spot and they were happy to see it stay in the family for another generation. His grandmother sat in her customary place by the hearth now, watching the fires, and she'd likely stay if it was to be a quiet night – not too loud or confusing and not too many lads who might jostle her when they were in their cups. 

Just as he was setting the last of the trenchers into the oven, the house door opened with the familiar jangle of the bells Siân had put up years before when her hearing had started to fade. Meic looked up and flashed a smile to see a familiar, if not a common, face.

"Nik, you old dog! It's been years since you've been in these parts. Figured you were getting too old for traveling and had settled down in some nice quiet spot where folks would come to you."

"I've a few travels left in me yet." His voice, even just to speak, was full and rich and smooth. "How's the village keeping?"

"Well enough, though I'm sure you don't need me to tell you." Meic had been hearing stories about Nik since he was a boy, and he believed them easily. That he knew things without being told was just the simplest. Some said that the Fey had taught him how to read a man's soul as well as his mind, but Meic wasn't sure just what he believed about that. There were plenty of stories about the stones up on the mountain, but it was a dangerous place even without the Fey, and he'd kept well away.

Nik nodded as Meic handed him a tumbler of beer, and turned to smile at Siân, who was watching him with a warm look. "You look well."

"How's Efa?" Siân's voice was dry and cracked, but her tone was kind all the same.

"She's gone from us now – carried off to serve the Queen of Feyre."

The old woman nodded with a long sigh, looking back to the fire, and twisting the old gold ring on her finger.

Maic looked between the two. "You don't believe that do you? Not really?" It was too much like something out of a story, and just the very kind of story that Efa would want people telling. Nik seemed unperturbed at his disbelief, but his grandmother gave him an icy look. "I heard different, is all."

"Oh, I know. You heard that she's gone mad."

Somehow Nik's calm made him feel as bad as Siân's scrutinizing glare. "There was a man in here last week, who said he'd seen her, down on the coast..."

"I'm sure he did." Nik set down his glass. "But let me ask you, Meic, if you think it less true for all of that? What use do you think the Queen has for a sack of meat and bones?"

He didn't want to imagine, but Nik had that power to put a thing in your head with just a few words, and it was hard to stop thinking about it.

"You take care of her, now," Siân said, nodding slowly.

"I will. You know it." He touched his heart solemnly, and Meic felt the weight of those words settle into his skin as well.

"Then tell us a tale, old man, before it gets too crowded." His grandmother sat back in her chair, adjusting her shawl. "They'll all come soon enough, if they know you're here."

"Madam," he smiled, "I would be honoured."


End file.
